Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  Maggie shook her head. “He must have been boring because I still can’t place him.”

  “Well you must remember his idiot son Paolo the night we all tried the vilca.”

  “You tried the hallucinogenic plant?” Sam asked in amazement.

  “I did not,” Maggie said emphatically. “And neither did Lloyd. Someone had to ensure they didn’t all dance off into the jungle never to be seen again. But I do remember Sanchez and his son now though.”

  “This boy, he must have been about 10,” Pavel explained to Sam, “went into a frenzy on the vilca. When he calmed down he just sat for hours repeating that he was the reincarnation of Tupac Amaru.”

  Maggie snorted. “I seem to remember you having an interesting conversation with a wall in the high priest’s house that night, Pavel.”

  “Yes, this is true, but while the rest of us were nursing our hangovers the next day, young Paolo remained convinced that he was in fact Tupac Amaru.”

  “You can talk, you silly old man. That little chat you had with the spirits changed forever the way you approached your work. To this day you believe the huaca have the ability to get pissed off.”

  “Absolutely! And, as we discovered right here in this very city, they also have the power to direct malevolent emanations that literally shrivel the desecrators of their sanctuaries.”

  Maggie just raised an eyebrow, while Sam wondered just how much more woo-woo stuff she could take and still keep a straight face.

  “We found the Hand of God on our 53rd day,” Pavel continued, ignoring their scepticism. “It had been hidden inside the second, smaller altar in the Sun Temple. We celebrated long into the night, but were woken again the next morning by an earth tremor, which toppled most of what remained of the Acllahuasi’s front wall. “We then discovered that Inti’s Hand was missing, and so was William Sanchez and his idiot son. Half our porters then ran off and left us because they feared punishment from the ancient ones and, of the others, only two would join us to follow the thief.

  “We didn’t have to go far. We found Paolo cowering under a tree near the almost-unrecognisable body of his father. Sanchez was floating in the pool of a hot spring. Paolo said ‘a big wind’ had knocked his father into the pool where the hot steam had fried and shrivelled his skin in a few seconds. But the water, when I cautiously dipped my finger in, was lukewarm and there was no steam.

  “We returned here with the Hand, after burying Sanchez in the jungle, and tried to figure out what we should do. During the night one of the remaining porters tried to take the Hand, perhaps to protect it from us but maybe he just wanted the gold. Once again we were woken by a tremor. We found the porter in the plaza, kneeling where he had stumbled and dropped the box in which the Hand was kept. The pieces lay jumbled on the ground. We watched, helpless, as that man died in agony, of what we did not know. It may have been a heart attack or just plain fear.”

  “Pavel, this is too unbelievable for words,” Maggie said.

  “It is the truth, I swear. Half my team were scared witless and wanted to get out of there, as did the rest of the porters. They all swore they would never reveal the location of Inticancha or speak to anyone of the Hand of God and what it had done here. When they were gone there were six of us left. We all consulted the journal of Dias and then I spent some time in the Sun Temple thinking about our plan. I placed my hand on a map of the world to explain it better. I got no bad vibes and there were no more earth tremors so we decided the huaca, and maybe even Inti himself, approved of my idea.”

  “Which was what exactly? Though I’m afraid to ask,” Maggie said.

  “We planned to take the six pieces of the huaca to the furthest reaches of our world, to protect Tahuantinsuyu forever.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Pavel.”

  “I kid you not at all, Maggie,” Pavel stressed. “We had seen with our own eyes the vengeance of the Inca spirits, yet we did not want to leave the Hand of God in Inticancha for some other greedy or just unfortunate person to find.

  “Three days later we left, with the Hand in its box, to walk back to Machu Picchu. We caught the train to Cuzco and then carefully planned our departures from that city so that each of the pieces we carried remained in formation. Lloyd took the thumb west to Melbourne, the index finger went north to San Francisco with Barbara, the middle finger to Montreal with Louis, the ring finger to London with Alistair, and the little one went with Noel to Cairo. I took the wrist band to Chile, where I hid it amongst some insignificant artefacts in a museum in Punta Arenas.”

  “Oh, my, god,” Maggie exclaimed. “The Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet!”

  “Yes indeed Maggie. I worried when the Chilean authorities made such a fuss over it, after customs luckily caught that thief 10 years ago. They had no idea what it was, of course, but I was relieved when they put it in the museum in Santiago, even though it was too far north, relative to the other pieces. I trekked here straight away but there were no bad omens so I knew the Hand was safe.”

  “Not so safe, Pavel,” Maggie said. “The bracelet was stolen in Paris nearly three weeks ago.”

  “Oh merde, oh shit,” Pavel swore. “What was it doing there?”

  “It was on tour with an exhibition. I was actually in Paris, at the time, trying to mediate that never-ending dispute between the Chileans and Peruvians over the bracelet’s rightful ownership.”

  “Was it on tour with this Life and Death thing you were talking about?”

  “No,” Maggie said, “but, coincidentally, Marcus’s show had just left Paris.”

  “Coincidences, pah! I don’t believe in them,” Pavel pronounced.

  “Me either,” Sam agreed. “And it now seems pretty certain that the bracelet is in the hands of whoever is tracking down all the pieces and killing your so-called Guardians.”

  “We must formulate a plan,” Pavel decided, drumming his fingers on the table. “I have been thinking while I’ve been talking���”

  “It’s nice to see you can still do that, my dear,” Maggie commented.

  “There is much I can still do, Maggie. I think it’s time for Pavel Mercier to rejoin the living.”

  “And do what?” Sam asked.

  “Help you unmask the killer and, more importantly, restore the Hand of God to its people.”

  “And just how do you propose we do that?” Maggie asked.

  “With subterfuge, deceit and outright lies,” Pavel said. “When does the ICOM conference start?”

  “Saturday week, October the 10th,” Sam replied, then added a very hesitant, “Why?”

  “Here is my plan,” Pavel offered.

  “I hope it’s not as ridiculous as the one that got us all into this in the first place,” Maggie voiced.

  Pavel ignored the comment. “Tomorrow, we shall set off for Cuzco, from where we will make contact with Louis and Barbara to make sure they attend the Conference. We will also seek out a craftsman to fashion a replica of the Hand Of God.”

  Maggie and Sam exchanged worried looks but said nothing.

  “We will then go to the Conference in Melbourne where I will announce, to my assembled colleagues, details of the greatest archaeological find in the Americas since Machu Picchu. I will regale them with stories of Inticancha, the true lost city of the Incas.”

  “Pavel this sounds like a lovely bit of grandstanding for your personal edification,” Maggie said.

  “That is exactly how it should seem. And just in case the murderer is not one of this Life and Death team we will do a little pre-publicity, spreading vague rumours that, not only am I alive, but I have discovered an important Inca relic. Maybe we can use this internet thing my young friends here have been telling me about. That way we can be sure that anyone who has an interest in the huaca will be right where we want them.”

  “And then what do we do with them?” Maggie asked, scratching her head in frustration.

  “Then Sam can arrest them.”

  “I don’t understand why we need to h
ave a replica made,” Sam said.

  “If we do this right, Sam, everyone will be there. When Pavel Mercier comes back from the dead to announce the discovery of Inticancha and the Hand of God, I need something to ‘unveil’. And what better way to flush out this murderer than to make him question the authenticity of the pieces he already has.”

  “Pavel, I was put on this case, in the beginning, to make sure that the Professor’s murder had no adverse affect on this very important Conference,” Sam explained. “I don’t think that using ICOM ‘98 to flush out someone who has been travelling around the world killing people and stealing things that don’t belong to him would be regarded, by my bosses, as ‘damage control’. Daley Prescott will have a pink fit for a start, and I’ll probably be assigned desk duty for the rest of my life.”

  Pavel looked from Sam to Maggie and back to Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Cuzco, Peru, Friday October 2, 1998

  Two hours after they had checked back into the Hotel Royal Inca and washed away the dirt of the two day trek and the long train trip back from Inticancha, Sam and Maggie were sitting at an outdoor cafe table in a street off the Plaza de Armas enjoying icy cold beers. Pavel, who had registered as Henri Schliemann, had left them to go off on his mission to find an expert craftsman.

  “There’s nothing better than a cleansing ale,” Sam sighed.

  “You realise this whole idea is complete lunacy, Sam,” Maggie remarked.

  Sam shrugged. “I haven’t been able to come up with a better plan, have you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean that Pavel’s is worth pursuing.”

  A crowd of people suddenly surged down the narrow street and in the ensuing tangle of tourists, table legs and one angry waiter, who had just arrived with their meal, Sam knocked her beer over. When the waiter had finally stopped apologising for the mess and left them in peace Sam realised that Maggie was staring down the street with a peculiar expression on her face.

  “What’s up, Maggie? You look like you’ve just seen a huaca demonstrating how pissed off it can get.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I just saw Pablo Escobar spying on us from that doorway down there.”

  “Who is Pablo Escobar?” Sam asked.

  “He’s a curator from one of the museums in Cuzco, the bloke I had to deal with in Paris over the ownership of the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet.”

  “Well we are in Cuzco, Maggie, so it’s not entirely unlikely that we’d run into him.”

  “But he was watching us.”

  “He probably couldn’t believe it was really you sitting here. Don’t worry about it, unless you think he’s behind all this stuff we’re investigating.”

  Maggie laughed and relaxed. “Not likely,” she said. “The man is a complete imbecile. He couldn’t organise his sock drawer without help.”

  When they finished dinner Maggie suggested they take a stroll around the Plaza to get their leg muscles moving. “Otherwise you may find you can’t walk at all tomorrow,” she said.

  As they passed the church of La Compa����a, which was lit up like a Christmas tree, Sam caught a glimpse, before he stepped back into a large group of people behind them, of a man wearing a dark green shirt. It was the fourth time she’d noticed him in 10 minutes, although she still hadn’t managed to see his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.

  “What colour shirt was your Se��or Escobar wearing?” Sam asked.

  “Red, I think. Why?”

  “I just have the feeling someone is following us,” Sam said. “I keep seeing the same green shirt.”

  “Is it being worn by the same person, or is someone handing it around the Plaza to confuse you?”

  “Okay, so now I’m getting paranoid,” Sam laughed. “Maybe we both need some sleep.”

  They crossed the Plaza and walked down the street that led to their hotel but as they entered the smaller Plaza Regocijo, Sam put her hand on Maggie’s arm and guided her straight ahead.

  “What? The hotel’s over there,” Maggie reminded her.

  “I think Mr Green Shirt is behind us again,” Sam whispered.

  They took the next street on the right, quickened their pace a little and then took the next left.

  “Alley,” Sam urged, and they slipped into a dead-end lane and stood quietly in the semi-darkness.

  Sam flattened herself against the wall near the corner and waited. A few moments later the only approaching footsteps she could hear stopped just short of the alley. Sam took a silent breath, reached out and grabbed the man by the front of his green shirt, dragged him around the corner and tripped him over her leg. She still had hold of him with her left hand as he stumbled backwards, into a pile of rubbish, babbling something unintelligible as he fell. Sam swung her right hand back ready to punch him in the face if he moved.

  “Good heavens!” Maggie exclaimed and grabbed Sam’s arm. “Don’t hit him. At least not till we find out what the hell he’s doing here.”

  Sam stepped to one side and looked at the man properly for the first time. Enrico Vasquez looked right back at her.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Sam demanded.

  “Would you believe I was sightseeing?” he asked.

  Chapter Nine

  Cuzco, Peru, Friday October 2, 1998

  Enrico Vasquez insisted on paying for the ‘long cold drinks in a nearby cafe’ that he’d suggested as an alternative to having Sam beat him up to find out why he was stalking them through the streets of Cuzco when he should have been looking after his exhibition in Melbourne. When the waiter had left, Vasquez lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “I realise this looks very suspicious,” he began.

  “That’s an understatement,” said Sam.

  “I know I was already on top of your suspect list,” Vasquez continued, “but I can assure you my being here has nothing to do with the death of Professor Marsden, as least not directly.”

  “What makes you think you’re our prime suspect?” Sam asked.

  “From our first meeting I knew I was your prime suspect, and not because the Professor and I had been seen having a disagreement, but because of a certain bias on your part.”

  “Bias? I don’t understand,” Sam said.

  “People too often forget that appearances can be deceptive,” Vasquez said. “A pretty girl like you, Detective Diamond, takes one look at a man like me and sees a short, dark foreigner, so you think ‘he must be guilty’, yet you disregard the good looking Andrew Barstoc even when you have information that suggests he may be up to no good.”

  Pretty girl, Sam thought. “You think Andrew Barstoc is good looking?” she asked, as if Vasquez must be the only person in the world who held that opinion. “You do yourself a disservice, Se��or,” she added with a smile. “But I agree with you on the subject of appearances. I, for instance, am a much smarter woman than I am a pretty girl.”

  Vasquez ducked his head apologetically while Maggie tried to hide her smirk in her glass.

  “I’ll be honest with you Se��or Vasquez,” Sam continued. “You’re right, I didn’t take to you on our first meeting, but only because you ‘appeared’ to be extremely sexist. And yes, you are a suspect - ‘a’ being the operative word - but that is mostly because you ‘appeared’ so intent on directing attention away from yourself onto others. As for Andrew Barstoc he is, as far as I know, just where he should be - in Melbourne with your travelling show. You on the other hand are sitting here, half a world away from where you’re meant to be, and still casting aspersions.”

  “I apologise for misjudging you,” he said. “Perhaps I am too quick to assume prejudice���”

  “Se��or,” Sam interrupted, “the Rites of Life and Death team is comprised of two Englishmen, an American woman and you, a Colombian, so as far as I’m concerned you’re all foreigners.”

  “He’s not Colombian,” Maggie declared. “He was begging for his life in Quechuan in that alley.”


  “He’s not? You’re not?” Sam said. “But you told us���oh, no you didn’t, did you? What you said was, “I have come from Colombia.”

  “I did not mean to mislead you Detective, but the fact that I am Peruvian was not relevant to your investigation. Keeping my nationality a secret was, however, important to my own work.”

  “Why?” Maggie laughed. “Don’t tell us Marcus has something against Peruvian curators.”

  “No, but he may not have hired me as his curator if he knew I was a Peruvian policeman.”

  Maggie stared at Vasquez as if he’d just admitted to being a Martian, while Sam thought she heard several pins drop in the ensuing silence.

  “Are you saying you’re a cop, not a curator?” Sam finally asked.

  “I am fully qualified in both fields, Detective. But I would have to say I am more of a spy than a cop. My job is not dissimilar to yours with your Government’s Cultural Affairs Department.”

  “I am not a spy,” Sam pronounced.

  “I’m aware of that. I merely meant that the department I work for is concerned with cultural affairs, specifically our stolen cultural heritage.”

  “Enrico,” Maggie said impatiently, “please stop talking in circles and tell us why you were following us, or Sam will take you back to that alley.”

  Sam gave Maggie a look that said, ‘oh sure, me and whose army?’ Vasquez just smiled.

  “I am an undercover operative for my government’s Heritage Retrieval Department,” he said. “It is my job to track down any Peruvian cultural property held by foreign institutions. This is no small task, as many museums do not know exactly what they have. I have found things, of historical significance to us, just lying around in dusty storerooms or mislabelled in forgotten display cases. Even with modern technology it could take decades for them to catalogue their collections and, in the meantime, curators like your friend Professor Marsden and all those other ‘dedicated collectors’ are retiring or dying off. No disrespect intended,” Vasquez said, holding up his hands. “But when these old experts are gone, so much more will be lost to us. These people have been accumulating���”